


Tell Me About The Light Behind My Eyes

by sapphistication



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Found Family, Hurt Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, blatant disregard of witcher canon and lore, temporarily mute character - freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:55:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29591028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphistication/pseuds/sapphistication
Summary: At first, Jaskier lost his witcher on that mountain top. Then Nilfgaard started the war and he lost everything else. Now he travels the Continent as a nameless, wandering, welcome bard. There is no greater power, Jaskier knows, than that of bringing light into darkness though the art of music and poetry.It comes as a great surprise to him, then, that his presence is asked at Kaer Morhen by none other than Yennefer of Vengerberg. Though apprehensive, all hesitation melts away when he hears why they need him. Princess Cirilla seems in dire need of a bard to bring some light back into her eyes.For that, Jaskier knows, he would even bear to live with four grumpy witchers and the Continent's most powerful mage. Oh well... He's sure this won't end well for him.Or:Jaskier is coming to Kaer Morhen as Ciri's emotional support bard. They make an unexpected family along the path to healing.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 80
Kudos: 247





	1. Destiny, Unwritten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my love goes out to Bella at this point, who lets me ramble about all my thoughts for this story at all times. You the best *smooch*
> 
>  _Warning:_ I never have any idea what I am doing, ever. Know that. I hope you enjoy this anyway.

If there is one thing that Jaskier is most fond of, it’s bringing light into people‘s lives. Sure, he also loves the attention and the applause when he is done, and he doesn’t mind the occasional flow of coin. But the real currency he deals is life. Laughter. Tears. Smiles. A nod of commiseration or remembrance. A clap on the shoulder. A hug. A tearful smile. The lighter atmosphere once he has finished his performance. The life, returning slowly to a war-tired town. The yearning for more in his audience’s faces. 

Life in the form of love. Life in the form of art. Music. Singing. Storytelling. Poetry.

It is Jaskier‘s entire existence, his passion, his first and last love. 

And now, it has become the light in other peoples’ lives, too. The thing that keeps them going in the war raging through their lives, soiling their minds, polluting their hearts. Where the war leaves them hopeless and angry, his songs and tales give them hope and joy. 

For his part, Jaskier gets to stay in every tavern for free, even a warm meal and drinks as long as he plays. “You bring life back into these walls,” one of the landlords has told him with gruff hope, “I’ll give you my firstborn for free.” Jaskier had laughed and thanked him, told him that was not necessary. The landlord only shook his head in wonder at this curious man before him. The one with eyes as blue as the sky he sang about, as deep as the sea he told about, and as bright as life used to be. 

The curious, curious bard. He brings life back wherever he goes. And the people love him. 

He used to have a name, but that name fell right along with the kingdom of Cintra. If he is asked for his name, he gives one. It’s old. Feels wrong on his tongue, but it is safe all the same. Julian. But people rarely ask for names anymore, and Jaskier is almost grateful for that.

These days, he is just the bard with the light behind his eyes. A light that has become rare. A light that is welcome wherever he goes. 

And that, in turn, is what keeps Jaskier going. 

It’s the deeply rooted symbiosis between an artist and his audience, or a teacher and his students, as he knows so well. He might not stand in the university of Oxenfurt anymore teaching a large group of bright, curious, and occasionally hungover students. But if his songs and his tales can teach a mother who lost her son to smile again. If he can make a crying, abandoned girl laugh bright and honest. If he can make a widower fall in love again. Then he, conversely, knows he can do the same. He knows he can overcome the aching hole in his heart that is still, after all this time, yearning for the gruff face of a witcher. 

There is no greater power, the bard knows, than that of bringing light. 

So, he brings light in the darkness of war. And in the process saves more lives than he can ever possibly be aware. 

It is a good life, he would say. He won’t, of course, because this is still a wartime. But he is quite happy, some says. Never lonely, his bedside never empty. The yearning only a low simmer anymore, but likely just his nature of falling in love with moments, memories, feelings. It’s not Geralt that he wants. It’s the melancholy, the nostalgia for the better days, the adventurous days, the youth in his mind, and the enthusiasm.

It’s not Geralt. 

Or, so he keeps telling himself as he travels the Continent alone. Nothing for company but his lute, his voice, and his mind.

* * *

At Kaer Morhen, Geralt is sitting by the hearth and… _broods_ , as Jaskier would have said. The thought of the bard makes him wince involuntarily. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling, is not even sure he wants to find out. But it tastes a lot like guilt, maybe worry, with a faint hint of nostalgia.

He doesn’t know where Jaskier is, if he is even still alive or if he has finally managed to get himself killed, running that mouth of his. Swallowing hard, Geralt abandons this thought as quickly as it came, and his frown intensifies.

A headache makes itself known, but that’s nothing new. He ignores it in favour of looking up at Yennefer as she joins him, sitting down opposite him at the table with the hint of a sad smile. Something akin to resignation clear in her features, and Geralt almost hears a faint, impressed noise by a dramatic bard at his ability to read people’s faces.

Ripping his thoughts away from the bard once more, Geralt focuses on the sorceress, a question in his eyes. She shakes her head with a sigh and Geralt’s heart sinks in his chest.

Still no talking on Ciri’s part, then. She has been with them for close to three months now, but words are scarce. Geralt doesn’t know if she straight-up refuses to talk, if she is mentally too weak for it, or if that is how the trauma of the past manifests. Honestly, it could be either, since none of the witchers are good conversationalists - and neither is Yen.

“I worry about her,” the sorceress says, her voice carefully void of emotions.

Geralt grunts in affirmation, and then winces. That is the thing about communication at Kaer Morhen. It happens carefully calculated and disguised. If at all. He, Lambert and Eskel have proven that a conversation of differently nuanced grunts is perfectly possible and mutually intelligible. But that is no environment for a child, much less one that is used to the polite platitudes of a royal court.

“She hides from us,” Yen continues, pouring herself some wine.

“Hm. Can you blame her?”

She shakes her head, eyes fixed somewhere far away over Geralt’s shoulder. He lets her, welcomes his own quiet brooding once more.

“She shouldn’t have to,” Yen adds after a moment. _I don’t want her to_ , she doesn’t say, but Geralt knows her by now. Knows that she loves Ciri, the idea of caring for a child. He knows that she is suffering at Ciri’s silence, at a complete loss of what to do – just like the rest of them.

With a sigh and a grunt, Geralt nods, but there’s not much he can say to that. He agrees with her, but doesn’t know how to change their current situation. Talking to adults is hard at the best of times, how the hell is he supposed to talk to a grieving young girl, mourning not only the death of her family but also the loss of her whole entire world?

A girl they are supposed to take care of, now that she doesn’t have anyone else left. A girl he is meant to traumatise even more.

He doesn’t know what to do, what to say, what to think.

Everything he could say would only make things harder. A child’s mind is too easily influenced by words. One wrong utterance, one misstep, and they might never forget. He knows. He still has memories like that, no matter how often he tries to pretend he doesn’t.

Yen sighs, possibly in frustration at Geralt’s sheer uselessness in this situation, and downs her cup of wine in one go before pouring herself another.

“We need help,” she states, her eyes now clear and focused as Geralt meets them with a frown.

“Do you have something in mind?”

“Not exactly,” she begins slowly, lifting the cup of wine to her lips. “We need someone who can handle this. Who’s more… _human_ , I suppose, than any of us. Someone who can talk to her, really talk. Say the right things, make her want to say them back, even.”

Geralt now reaches for the carafe, too, and pours himself a drink, his hands itching for something to do, something to hold. He looks at Yen. “A teacher, then?”

“Something like that,” she nods. “But more. Someone who can maybe make her laugh. And sing, maybe even dance. A bit of normalcy for her, a semblance of the life she had before.”

“Someone who will take the burden of being alive off her shoulders and carry it for a while,” Geralt muses, mildly confused at where that suggestion came from. It feels foreign to his mouth, but familiar to his ears. Like a quote. But he can’t quite make it out as his thoughts are interrupted by Yen’s bemused but affirmative nod.

“Exactly. Someone who sees beauty and life in everything, not soiled by death and destruction. An optimist, maybe,” she adds sheepishly, her expression almost wistful. Geralt can relate to that, almost finds himself smiling along.

Her words register then. Someone who knows to express himself and help her with that. Someone who can make her laugh and sing and dance. Someone who sees the Good in everything. _Bard_ , he thinks suddenly. _She needs a bard!_

The confusion is back. And with it, the looming shadow of a Jaskier-shaped loneliness. Oh. _Oh!_

“Someone we know and trust,” Yennefer continues, unaware of his little internal crisis – or maybe purposefully adding to it, aware of his thoughts. He honestly wouldn’t put it past her.

He sighs. It cannot be. Not him. There has to be someone else. There _must_ be someone else! Another well-taught bard they know and trust, who is painfully optimistic at all times, annoyingly talkative, and would never dare to leave a young girl in need hanging.

But he knows there isn’t anyone else. There is only Jaskier. They need him – but more importantly, Ciri needs him. Geralt doesn’t know how to feel about the words that are on the tip of his tongue, only knows that they’re going to change everything.

This is not for him, though, and it is not for Yen. It is for Ciri. So they have to try. He has to say it.

“Yeah,” he grumbles at last, downing his wine in one go and wishing it were stronger. “Yeah, I know someone like that.” If he slumps in his chair miserably, the sorceress thankfully leaves it uncommented.

She stares at him for a second before understanding dawns on her face. Along with several other emotions Geralt feels reflected on his own. A pause. Then she reaches for the wine again. “Shit. I think you’re right.”

* * *

As expected, Vesemir looks sceptical as they tell him about their idea to find Jaskier and bring him here for Ciri the next morning.

“You mean to tell me you want to bring a human to Kaer Morhen you haven’t seen in a few years, Geralt, in the hopes that, what, he is going to magically make that young girl happy?” he asks. And, well, if he puts it like that, Geralt can’t help but think that maybe this is not such a good idea after all.

“Do we know he doesn’t work for Nilfgaard?” Lambert asks, though it’s more like a growl in the early hours of the morning he despises with a passion.

“He doesn’t,” Geralt grunts, not allowing any discussion here. “Jaskier wouldn’t.”

Lambert looks at him, then shrugs and focuses on his porridge once more. “Hm.”

Eskel looks at Geralt and Yennefer with confused amusement. “You two don’t seem to be too taken with your own idea there.”

Yen huffs. “Melitele knows there is company much more bearable than that of the bard. I would not call us the best of friends,” she says vaguely, and Geralt snorts at that. Yeah, no shit. Yen only gives him a look, then turns back to Eskel. “But as little as I think of him, I do have reason to hope that his presence would be beneficial to Ciri.”

“How?” Vesemir asks, apprehensive, but intrigued all the same.

“Well,” Geralt starts and leans back in his chair, weighing his words. “He is nothing like any of us. And therefore, by simple logic of consequence, better suited for this than we are. He’s–”

“Annoying,” Yennefer interrupts him with an exasperated voice, listing with her fingers. “Likes to hear himself talk, but also has more people skills than any of us combined. Smiles a lot, which gets on your nerves easily. Sings even more. Annoying.”

“You’ve said that already.”

“I said what I said,” the sorceress shrugs. She looks at Geralt as if to challenge him. “Annoying. But he knows his way around emotions and how to express them. And he does express them. Regularly. Dramatically. Really, he never shuts up. Did I mention he was annoying?”

Eskel snorts at that, but Vesemir looks more and more… constipated. And yeah. Geralt can empathise.

“Yet despite all that,” Yennefer concludes, “I think it would be good to have him here. For a change of scenery. A confidant for Ciri, if she needs one. A teacher, too. Or maybe just a source for… courtly entertainment if she so wishes.” It is very obvious how little she thinks of that idea, but Geralt appreciates that she’s pushing through. “And, most of all, as little as I think of him, I do not think there is anything he would not do for a friend in need. Especially if that friend is a scared young girl.”

Geralt looks at the sorceress once she is done explaining the situation to the other Witchers. He finds himself surprised. Astonished, really, that Yen would lose a single good word about the bard. But here they are. And she said what she said.

And so, with the thought of only what is best for Ciri, it is decided right then and there. They are going to bring Jaskier to Kaer Morhen for Ciri’s emotional well-being.

If Geralt’s chest constricts at the thought of the bard with his bright blue eyes and his gentle voice, nobody needs to know that. If his heart flutters at the memory of his smile, and his fist clenches at the reminder that Jaskier most likely doesn’t want anything to do with him, then that is nobody’s business but his.

Lambert frowns at him, but doesn’t comment on what he senses, only turns back to his food.

Jaskier. In Kaer Morhen. After all this time that Geralt tried to forget him.

_Once more, I find my life in a pile of shit_ , a bitter voice inside his head speaks up at that thought. _And once more, I’m about to find Jaskier in the middle of it._

At that, Geralt actually winces. The sudden reminder of past insults piercing his heart viciously. Oh, how he regrets these words, and all those that refused to follow.

He sighs, trying to shake the guilt and loneliness. “It’s settled then?”

Vesemir nods carefully. “For the girl,” he reminds them. “But also because I am intrigued to find out what kind of a person it takes to travel with a Witcher for several years,” he smirks.

Geralt rolls his eyes at that, and Yen huffs, rising from the table and heading into the direction of Ciri’s room. “Ten crowns that you’re gonna regret those words,” she calls over her shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you for reading, I hope you liked this! If not, please don't be mean to me, I'm a sensitive little lesbian and I _will_ cry!
> 
> I can't yet say when the next update will come, but I sure hope I won't take too long :p In the meantime, feel free to come say hi over on tumblr [@natskier](https://natskier.tumblr.com/).


	2. The Nameless Bard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oop, here we go!  
> If there is one thing I love, it is including random, kind old ladies in a chapter. Y'all, meet Ewa.
> 
> I hope you're all safe, healthy, and know you're loved and not alone. Happy reading <3

It is barely past dawn when Jaskier walks down the stairs of the _Old Hound_. The innkeeper, a most lovely old lady, greets him with an almost grateful smile. “Morning, Julian,” she says, cleaning a pitcher with a rag that had definitely seen better days. Well, like all of them, Jaskier figures. 

“Morning, darling,” he greets her as he makes his way over to the bar, taking a seat opposite her welcoming smile.. 

“Last day in town, is it?”

Jaskier grunts in affirmation, a habit he must really get rid of. “You’ll finally have that room back for someone that can pay for it,” he smiles, grateful that she let him stay a whole week for free. Though he does feel bad for it. He would gladly have paid double its price.

“Young man,” she begins their old discussion with a sigh, “you brought more people and money in this house than I’ve seen for the whole of last month.” She swats the rag at him in a friendly scolding gesture. “I would gladly have you stay another week.“ 

Jaskier laughs and sighs. “I’ll keep that in mind if I have to come back.“ 

She nods and disappears into the kitchen briefly before returning with a bowl of steaming porridge and extra honey. Jaskier instinctively reaches for his purse, but she stops him with another swat. “You keep those crowns, boy.” 

Jaskier looks up, ready to protest, but neither her tone nor her face leave any room for negotiation. He gives her another genuine smile and a soft, “Thank you” before he dives into the porridge. 

Ewa makes the best porridge he’s had in a while. Her secret, she told him the other day, was cinnamon and other spices he had never heard before. And with the added honey and even an apple, he has a decent breakfast that would last him a while. 

A minute later, a steaming cup of tea appears next to him that he knows will taste bitter but will wake him up in no time. And do wonders for his voice. 

“Ewa, you are a blessing. Has anyone told you that? I shall write you a song one of these days. Trust me, the last time I wrote a song in praise of someone, that changed their whole life,” he winks. “Granted, he didn’t want that and only complained, but we can’t have everything, can we?” He keeps his voice light and carefree, ignoring the fluttering of his heart and the flare of pain in his chest that always accompany any thoughts of the witcher. 

Ewa laughs at him and walks around the counter with a wet rag this time, to go about wiping the tables, chairs and benches. For an old tavern in the middle of a war, the _Old Hound_ is very clean and comfortable. Jaskier likes it here and the thought of leaving town before dawn tomorrow leaves him feeling a bit wrong-footed. But he needs to keep moving, can’t linger in one place too long. 

He may have lost his name and his old songs, may only play as the wandering bard these days, but there is still always the lingering possibility that someone might recognise him, his voice, his face, his name. Nilfgaard likely has an interest in the Witcher‘s Bard, hoping that he could lead them to their objects of interest. They are wrong, of course, but that hasn’t really stopped warmongers before. 

Enjoying his tea and the quiet calm of the empty tavern in the early hours of the morning, Jaskier gives himself a moment to mourn the black, unicoloured clothes he is wearing. Can’t prance around like a noble peacock if you don’t want to be recognised or remembered for anything but your music. The dark colour of his clothes is washed out, bleached by the sun, and resembles more of a sad brown-ish grey than a deep black. 

In short, he looks just like everyone else — and that is supposedly a good thing. Jaskier sighs wistfully. Well. He is allowed to wish for more colour in his life. In every sense of the word, he finds. 

“Know where you’ll be going next?” Ewa asks as she comes back behind the counter, then leans against it facing Jaskier. 

She regards him with a look of nothing but kind curiosity, but Jaskier still knows better than to tell her — or anyone, for that matter. His plan is to go further north, away from Nilfgaard, but plans could change and things could happen. So he shrugs. 

“Not really. Not a fan of plans in the times of war.”

The woman hums, like she is far too familiar with that sentiment. “Probably for the best. But I know that anywhere you end up, they’ll be blessed,” she smiles. 

This woman has his whole entire heart, and Jaskier really does contemplate writing a song for her. An upbeat tune. Something sweet and happy and safe. 

Now, to find something that rhymes with Ewa...

Jaskier retreats into a corner of the inn, lazily strumming chords on his lute to provide a comfortable sort of background noise for the patrons who throw him kind and curious glances as they slowly but steadily come trickling in throughout the morning hours. 

When Ewa comes to his table to refill his cup of tea a while later, Jaskier gives her a grateful smile and asks her to sit down for a moment to rest her feet. She looks around the inn, now considerably more crowded than it was a few hours ago, but not yet filling up for real as it is only noon. 

He raises his eyebrows. “If they demand your services while you are resting, they have to fight me on it first,” he grins at her, but he means it. 

Ewa tuts at him, but takes a seat nonetheless, her feet likely more than grateful. Jaskier keeps playing chords at random, warming up his fingers and mentally composing a song for Ewa as he has promised. 

“You will be sorely missed, Julian,” she tells him out of nowhere, and he opens his eyes to look at her. “Remind me to give you your tips before you leave.” 

Jaskier frowns at that. 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, boy, of course you get money for playing,” she rolls her eyes, though not unkindly. 

Jaskier shakes his head. “These people need the coin much more than I do, my dear,” he explains. “What would you do with it if I refused?” 

“I will not let you refuse.” 

“And if you have to? If I leave in the middle of the night without a trace?” 

Ewa smiles at him, but there is a trace of something different in it, something Jaskier cannot quite identify. “Just take the damn coin,” she tells him, a warm hand on his knee. Then she sighs. “You are something else, Julian.” 

Jaskier leans forward, his fingers still picking and stroking the lute strings. “I have never heard these words be uttered with a notion of wonder, I admit. Only with, hmm…” he thinks, a smile playing with his lips. “Annoyance. Disdain. Let me think, what else. Oh, arousal!” he laughs and Ewa joins him. “But never like this. What’s on your mind, if I may ask?” 

Her smile does not waver through his rambles, only seems to get wider. “Only that Destiny might want to keep you around a bit longer, just to be safe. And I might find myself approving of Her choice.” 

What. “What?” _What?_

She shakes her head, pats his knee, and rises from her chair. “Remind me later.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Jaskier finds himself agreeing, staring after her, a bit dumbstruck. And more than a bit confused. On edge, maybe. Because Destiny and Jaskier, they were not exactly friends. He was more like Her lapdog. A shit-shoveller. A ruiner of lives. Of one life in particular, and possibly two more in the process. 

Fuck. The mere insinuation that Destiny might want to ‘keep him around’ sends a shiver down his spine and leaves a sour aftertaste to the tea before him. 

He tries not to think about it. And when the first patrons throw some song wishes his way, he actually succeeds in taking his mind off it. 

These days, when Jaskier sings, he keeps his eyes closed. Does not do it for the audience’s reaction, does not sing for their applause and their recognition. Just sits in his corner and lets life unfold around him, merely gives it a reason to. Today, however, Jaskier gets to play a few songs he has been toying around with, ones that don’t yet have a set melody or a mood, and he gauges his audience’s reaction to them. They seem to enjoy every last one of the unfamiliar songs, which he counts as a good sign for future reference.

It is only because he has his eyes open now that he sees her. In the far corner at the opposite end of the tavern. Yennefer of fucking Vengerberg! Watching him with a blank, almost bored face, and those piercing purple eyes of hers. 

If it weren’t for the almost three decades of practice Jaskier has with playing and singing in front of people, he would have missed the next note with both his vocal chords and his strings. Because he can only stare at her now, frozen in place like a mouse before a snake. 

Yeah, well, okay, that is actually a pretty decent comparison. Yennefer, always bringing out the best in him. Such as feeling like a mouse. Tiny and vulnerable and unimportant. 

He soldiers through the song, though it feels bland on his tongue. People applaud him and clap him on the back as they pass him, and he meets them with a smile each time. Notes how those who came in looking sullen and angry now have less prominent frowns between their brows, their shoulders more relaxed, the chatter going up a few notches. 

Almost like it used to be before the war and immediate danger looming over all of them. 

It warms him, the knowledge that he did this. Or at least part of it. That he gets to give this, gets to share this. It almost makes him forget the set of piercing purple eyes that are now approaching him. 

Oh. Oh fuck. 

Again with the mouse and the snake, and Jaskier doesn’t know what to do. So he does nothing. And she doesn’t, either. Instead of continuing her way over to him, she goes to the counter and orders an ale. She pays a few crowns and then goes back to her corner. Huh.

Jaskier watches, waiting to be hit in the face with reality, waiting for another chance to play Destiny’s lapdog in the face of Yennefer – because wherever she is, Geralt wouldn't be far. That surely hasn’t changed. 

He swallows, but still nothing happens. Her eyes are still trained on him, but he doesn’t feel hexed or cursed or mind controlled. He feels apprehensive and on edge, sure, and he wants to get out of here as soon as yesterday, but other than the sheer existential dread he is feeling, everything else is rather normal. Which, good! He really has no time to be cursed right now. 

Albeit curious, Jaskier really doesn’t want to speak with her. Or approach her. Or even look at her, for that matter. So he doesn’t. If she wants something, she can speak to him herself – though he would really just appreciate it if she could disappear again, back to wherever she came from.

He ignores her as well as the blooming feeling of dread in his chest. Something will happen, he knows. Something in the form of Yennefer of stupid fucking Vengerberg. Jaskier sighs, then focuses back on his more appreciative audience.

It isn’t until a few hours later that he puts his lute down to go outside for a moment. The air in the tavern has become rather thick and too warm, he needs to catch his breath outside for a second – much to the dismay of his audience, but he reassures them with a grin that he will be back shortly. 

He has just stretched his limbs with a few satisfactory _crack_ s when he hears the door to the tavern open and close briefly. Without turning around, he knows she has followed him. The little voice of pettiness inside him is weirdly satisfied that she actually did that. Oh, how he has missed this petty little voice and its dramatic tendencies.

“Jaskier.” Oh well, that voice he certainly did not miss. At all. Ever. Not even a little bit.

He sighs and resolutely does not turn around, instead inspecting the… muddy ground beneath his feet. “Yennefer. Greetings.” 

“Very heartfelt greetings at that,” she notes and Jaskier almost appreciates the hint of sarcasm in her voice. It’s not new, but something about it feels different. Maybe it’s the war. It’s probably the war. But she sounds different, too.

“Extremely,” he nods. “Entirely sincere and all. How’d you find me?”

She scoffs. “Sure you want to know, _Julian_?" There is a hint of confusion in the way she snarls his name, but Jaskier doesn't care to enlighten her.

“Oh, no.” he chuckles humourlessly, distinctly aware that he would really rather not know the endless ways of the sorceress. Ignorance is bliss, and all that. “Yeah, no, thanks.”

“Hmm.”

Silence. He waits for the witch to state her demands so he can ignore them, and then be talked into whatever she needs him for. 

“Listen, bard, I enjoy being here as much as you love having me, I’m sure.” Yennefer walks around him until she is at his front, making sure she has his undivided attention. She does, of course, and that has nothing to do with looking at her. But she doesn’t need to know that. “And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we need your help.” 

We. Case in point, Geralt is never far from Yennefer. They’re still a _we_. Maybe one of these days Jaskier can find it in himself to be happy for them. Today, however, is not that day. And now, _years_ later, they are back and they– 

“Wait, you need my help?” he asks, sounding as incredulous as he feels. 

The witch only rolls her eyes, obviously frustrated with that fact. Jaskier almost enjoys seeing her suffer at that.

“Well, _I_ don’t. But a certain young girl does,” she explains, and a lot of the fight drains out of Jaskier as her words register. 

Princess Cirilla of Cintra. Geralt’s Child of Surprise. And apparently, something is wrong. Jaskier feels his resolve melting at the thought of the young girl being anything but safe and happy. 

“What about her?” he asks gently and sees a lot of the tension drain out of Yennefer. She knows she has him hooked, but he also doesn’t really try to hide it, so it’s not like he will credit her for that observation. 

Yennefer sighs and Jaskier could swear he sees her wince. “She doesn’t talk. To any of us. She has nightmares that keep us awake most nights, and she barely eats. The training goes well and she even started learning how to get a hold of her magic. But… I feel like she’s fading.”

“And none of you are good with that kind of thing,” Jaskier concludes for her. _That kind of thing_ meaning life at large, but he doesn’t need to elaborate. If there’s someone who is well aware of their own strengths and weaknesses, it would be Yennefer. 

She nods, though, and sighs once more. Wow, she must really hate asking him for help. “She’s a child. She deserves better than what we can give her. And as much as I hate to admit it, I think you can give her a lot of what she might need.”

Jaskier lets that sink in. The implications of it. But he still isn’t quite sure what exactly she is asking of him. “So…” he lets it hang in the air, his hands on his hips as he eyes Yennefer. 

She rolls her eyes and looks ready to shove him. “So,” she snarls. “I am taking you with me to Kaer Morhen so you can bring some damn light into that girl’s life!”

He stares at her for a while, not really sure what to do. Of course he wants to help Princess Cirilla, make her believe in the good things again, tell her about them, show them to her. But going with Yennefer and helping Cirilla would mean facing Geralt again. And Jaskier sure as hell would rather live with Valdo Marx than be confronted with his unrequited feelings every day for however long it was expected of him. 

“No,” he murmurs, already feeling his heart break inside his chest with the mere thought of seeing Geralt again, not ready to see the same anger and disdain and disgust in those eyes as the last time he had seen them. “I’m sorry, but I–” 

“Listen,” Yennefer says, taking a step closer to him, her voice almost gentle now. “I don’t know what happened between you and Geralt. And I don’t really care, so don’t even start,” she raises a finger to stop him from speaking. “All I care about is that girl.” 

Jaskier let his eyes go wide, realising now that Yennefer cares for the princess. Really, actually cares for her. And that she is desperate, at her wit’s end. And that she is here, asking him for help even though she hates him. Well, he can’t possibly say no to her now, can he? 

“And that girl,” Yennefer continues, “is suffering alone right now. She won’t let us in. But knowing you, she won’t have a chance there. You’ll force yourself in.” There’s the shadow of a smile on her lips and Jaskier huffs in sheepish amusement. “You won’t have to talk to Geralt. Hell, I’ll even threaten him that he is not, under any circumstances, to talk to you. But come and help Ciri. Please.” 

_Please_. Please? To hear such a word directed at him by Yennefer of fucking Vengerberg, the most beautiful and powerful mage on the continent? Well. It has its own kind of magic, that word. 

And Ewa seems to be correct, Jaskier thinks, as he feels his resolve evaporate. Destiny really seems to want to keep him around. Make him Geralt’s own personal shit-shoveller once more. 

He sighs and meets her eyes. “When do we leave?”

The last of the tension between Yennefer’s shoulders is released at his question and she looks around with a shrug, the golden rays of the afternoon sun caught in her hair. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Jaskier nods and walks back to the tavern door. “For the record, I’m only doing this for Princess Cirilla. I literally do not care for anyone else. _And_ I will keep your offer in mind about threatening Geralt to stay the fuck away, just so we’re clear,” he explains his terms to her, but she only snorts. 

“Sure, bard, whatever helps you fall asleep at night.” 

He bristles, ready to turn around and refuse her request again. But then emerald green eyes and a shock of pale blonde hair appear before his eyes, and he knows fully well he couldn’t possibly live with himself if he didn’t give his all to make that girl feel better. 

So he only sighs and goes to collect his things, not at all ready to be facing Geralt again soon. Really. Not at all. 

He started this day in the company of a lovely, kind old lady. And now it looks like he is going to end it with a scary, powerful, even older one. 

Great. Just wonderful. Jaskier wants to scream, but that would be a bit excessive. Instead, he lets the heavy door fall shut behind him, satisfied that Yennefer is still outside. A dramatic exit, at least. Small victories.

He could live with that for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone give Jaskier a hug, please. Oh, wait, I'm the writer... fuck. But see, Geralt? Jaskier is completely fine without you! >:( 
> 
> Oof, I hope this was okay? I'm still very insecure about all this, but I do hope you liked this! Please tell me if you did! <3 Hope it's not boring :p But don't worry, we'll have everyone together soon!
> 
> As always, feel free to come say hi over on tumblr [@natskier.](https://natskier.tumblr.com/)


	3. What's Past Is Proloue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me preface this by saying how absolutely loved and overwhelmed I feel at the response this is getting!!! You're all way too kind! Thank you so much for every single kudos and comment!!! <3<3<3
> 
> Hello! It's been a longer while than I intended, but I had to rewrite this whole chapter and turn it from a 3k one into a 6.7k babe. So. You're welcome, I guess :D This is common for me, by the way, so do not make the mistake of expecting regular and consistent updates in both schedule and length.  
> (Speaking of, I have midterms coming up soon so I don't know when I'll get to update next. Sorry in advance!)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like this chapter. After this, we get to the real deal (I hope o.o) And since some of you asked for more ominous old lady Ewa, here you go!

Jaskier is just packing what scarce belongings he travels with these days when there is a knock on the door. He frowns. Yennefer has decided to remain downstairs, talking about keeping an eye open or something, but Jaskier didn’t miss how pale she has been when he first laid his eyes on her. Pale and tired and weak, if one only knows where to look. Granted, she is still the most beautiful woman on the whole Continent, and could probably still wipe out this whole town with a flick of her little finger if she so wished, but… The way she holds herself. The way she hasn’t yet threatened to cut off his balls and feed them to him if he didn’t do as she said. The entire Ciri business and even the _please_. Something is wrong with her, very wrong. 

And it’s not like Jaskier cares about Yennefer. Nope, not at all. But, well. Call it curiosity. The smell of a good story afoot. Yeah, good, call it that. No sympathies lost here whatsoever. 

Another knock tears him away from his thoughts, and he curses himself. It really has been easier to get lost in his thoughts since he’s been travelling alone. There’s something he must work on. 

“Who is it?” he calls. 

“It’s me, Julian,” comes the warm voice of Ewa, and Jaskier relaxes immediately. Even feels a smile bloom on his lips before he can even invite her inside. The door opens and reveals her face, sporting an equally warm smile. 

“Ewa, my dear, what can I do for you?” he asks as he finishes folding the last undershirt that desperately needs a wash. 

The old lady steps into the room with a grace that keeps surprising Jaskier, and closes the door behind herself. “Oh, I just came to give you your coin,” she reminds him with a glint in her eye, and it takes every ounce of self-control Jaskier possesses to not sigh at that. “No protests, boy, we’ve been over this,” she chides him knowingly, and Jaskier grins. 

He watches as Ewa places a leather bag of considerable size on the small table by the window, and once again the need to protest rises in him. This is too much! There is no fucking way he made all of that in just a few days.

Before he can speak, though, Ewa waves him off and sits down on a chair to watch him pack. It is obvious that there is something on her mind, and so Jaskier waits for her to find the right words while he finishes gathering his belongings. 

“That woman of yours,” she begins, and Jaskier already wants to protest, because Yennefer of _fucking_ Vengerberg sure as all hells is not a woman of his. Or anything of his, for that matter! No. Oh no, no, no. But Ewa continues before he can voice his various thoughts, “Is she safe to travel?” 

_She is not safe to do anything with_ , Jaskier’s mind supplies immediately, but he has a feeling that might not be what Ewa means. He frowns at her. 

“Does she need rest first? Food? Some tea? She looks like she does.” The old lady sighs, and Jaskier’s confusion and, frankly, bewilderment, only grow by the second. Yennefer? Needing rest? No way. Surely not. 

“Sorry, whom are we talking about here?”

“Black hair, dark eyes, beautiful, yet no one dares to sit close to her. A loner with a piercing stare,” Ewa explains, and yeah, okay, she’s been talking about Yennefer all along. “Strong. But I tell you, when she first stepped into this house all my instincts told me to give her a room and two days of rest. And a good friend for a bit of a cheer.” 

Jaskier lets that sink in. There’s really nothing else to do now that his bags are packed, which is a bit of a shame, too. He likes having things to do with his hands, something to let his mind focus on. Something other than Yennefer, that is. 

Now that he thinks of her, though, he gets the feeling that Ewa might be right. He deflates a litte. Maybe this is not about him after all. 

“I don’t really think she has friends,” Jaskier offers lamely. “Let alone know what that concept even is.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, suddenly restless again. A hum. “She does look a bit tired, doesn’t she? Usually, she would have threatened to cut off my balls on three different occasions by now. Huh.” 

Ewa smiles knowingly and nods. “Well, lucky that she has you now,” she offers ominously and Jasker actually almost loses it right then and there. 

He physically has to take a step back and finds himself almost hysterical at the mere implication that he and Yennefer might be anything… well, _anything_! “Oh-ho, oh no, oh sweet Ewa, oh no. No way. Nope. Nuh-uh, that _woman_ is not my friend. And even if I did have any sympathies left for her, I can promise you, my sweet love, that I am the last person on this blasted Continent that she would ever consider a friend. Oh no. We have a... well, a _history_ and it is none of glory.” Jaskier is vaguely aware that he has resorted to wildly gesturing again, as old habits die hard, but a situation like this requires all the gesturing, all the dramatic flourishes, anything at all possible to underline just how much he and Yennefer are not friends or any sort of acquaintances. 

Ewa rises from her chair, that kind smile still on her lips, though there is a trace of disapproval or potentially just fond exasperation in her eyes. Like she knows something he doesn’t and finds his lack of insight amusing. Which, yeah, fair chance. 

“Julian,” she begins patiently, though Jaskier feels a lot like he is being scolded by his governess. “You of all people should know that if this were a story -- which it might as well be, mind you… If this were a story, then you can begin your tale wherever you like. And then what is past becomes nothing but prologue.” 

Jaskier stares at her, because how dare she talk in such ominous yet wise words! How dare this wonderful old lady use his own best argument against him? Because, yeah, life is a story, and you get to choose how you tell it. Yennefer, though, is not a story. She’s a legend. And Jaskier is not sure if it’s not bad luck to mess with the stuff of legends. Of course, he can’t tell Ewa that, can’t just tell her who this woman with black hair and purple eyes is. 

All he can do is sigh. Which, good, because he loves the dramatic effect it gives the half-hearted glare he shoots her. “This is still never going to happen,” he waves her off, a clear and strong implication that this is final, that he is done talking about this. 

Of course, Ewa ignores it. Infuriating woman! With her all-encompassing kindness towards every stray and her determination to enforce it. Jaskier loves her with his whole heart, obviously. 

“You never know,” she says, like she _does_ know. “And even if she will forever be a stranger to you, dear Julian, let me remind you that for people like us, it is a high duty to take care of strangers.”

Jaskier frowns at the implication of her words, once more appealing to his deepest need to take care of people around him. Appealing to the artist in him, the storyteller, the bard. The one who distracts from the bad things in life and emphasises love and peace. It rubs him the wrong way, to have that used against him and in favour of Yennefer, who by the way would curse him all the way to hell if he even tried to console her in any way, let alone in his usual manner. But Ewa doesn’t know that. And she doesn’t fucking listen to what he can’t possibly say. 

Frustration like this is something he hasn’t felt in a while, and he almost wants to welcome it like an old friend. Almost. 

Instead, he meets Ewa’s eyes firmly, his hands resting on his hips adequately. “I ask you, do not waste time and energy trying to convince me that this woman needs, of all things, a _bard_ in her life.” He just barely manages to suppress a scoff. Then wonders why he even bothered in the first place, and scoffs after all.

Ewa doesn’t deign his dramatics with any sort of reaction, just gets up from the chair and crosses her arms in front of her chest – a mirror of Jaskier’s own pose, he realises indignantly. “Frankly, I think we all need a bard in our lives. And a friend.” She raises her eyebrows and Jaskier feels how her eyes are piercing into his very soul. “Lucky if they’re the same person.”

“Ewa,” he sighs, though he does not have any sort of comeback. Nothing to say. Nothing to add. Because everything is already out in the open; there is no love lost between him and Yennefer, and even if there was, he certainly is the last choice for a friend she would make. Ever. At all.

He’s not even sure why he entertains Ewa like this. Nothing here is up for debate.

Apparently, graciously, _finally,_ she raises her hands and relents. “All right, all rights. Let an old lady talk until she’s blue in the face, and all. I merely came to give you what’s rightfully yours, and to make sure everything’s all right, my dear.”

Jaskier softens and gifts her a grateful smile. “Thank you, darling,” he says gently but firmly, then walks over to where the leather sack is still resting on the table where she put it. Reaching for it, he empties about half of it on the table without looking at Ewa, then pockets the rest. Behind him, Ewa tuts but thankfully doesn’t comment further, possibly having realised that arguing with Jaskier is a battle not chosen wisely.

“Thank _you_ , Julian,” she smiles gratefully once he has turned to her again. “For everything. The town has been lighter for your presence. I’ve seen more smiles in the past few days than I have in a while. And I’m sure that young boy you taught how to play that instrument of his will follow right in your footsteps,” she winks, and Jaskier chuckles.

“Yes, that he better does! There was talent in his fingers and a twinkle in his eye. That’s more than what I started with, let me tell you.”

Ewa nods and joins his chuckle. “He also has a sizeable heart, that boy. Like you. And I’m sure that wherever you go now will be blessed with the same light, I’m sure.”

Jaskier snorts but tries not to lose his glee, not with an audience so apparently invested in all his dealings and relationships. Okay, his smile does falter, he feels that, but makes up for it with a wink.

“Well, that’s unlikely,” he shrugs, aiming for nonchalance, then shoulders his bags and walks over to the door Ewa is now holding open for him. Bending slightly, he gives her a kiss to the cheek, and grins. “But I’ll blind them if I must.”

At Ewa’s grin, he feels something deep inside him settle. And he knows right then and there that he absolutely would do that.

* * *

Downstairs, Yennefer is just finishing a glass of undoubtedly atrociously mediocre wine when Jaskier descends the stairs. Raising her eyebrows, she sets down the glass and rises from her bench.

“What took you so long?” she snaps in lieu of greeting, and Jaskier feels his undying love for her grow ever stronger.

“Sorry, love, but I had to convince the lovely innkeeper that we do, in fact, hate each other.” He smiles at her, makes it as flat as possible, void of all warmth. He is tired, frustrated, and not at all appreciative of the several turns this day has taken. He shouldn’t take it out on Yennefer probably, as she is only the messenger of sorts, but well. She never hesitated to take everything out on him, so maybe this is their thing. Their not-at-all-friends thing.

Yennefer shrugs and puts on her coat with a grace that fills Jaskier with a deep jealousy. Well, for her grace, and also for the fine fabric the coat is made of – it seems to shine in a deep black even in the dim light of the tavern in late afternoon. Furs and feathers keeping her warm against the harshest of weathers. Ugh. Once more, Jaskier finds himself mourning the loss of his fancy attire. The finest, warmest, most shining and sparkling and expensive fabrics to adorn his noble bottom.

If nothing else, it’s another thing he can bond over with princess Cirilla.

Which is what draws him back to the present where he finds Yennefer staring at him with an entirely bored, aloof, condescending tilt to her eyebrows. If he didn’t hate her so much, he would admire her expressive features – and she would undoubtedly put a curse on his vocal chords and threaten to castrate him if he implied something positive about her again. And then, out of spite and out of the sheer opportunity to annoy her further, he would lose what little is left of his sense of self-preservation, and shower her with compliments. Both genuine and back-handed.

Oh, what a terrifying yet refreshing thought.

“Bardling, you are even more in love with your own thoughts than I remember,” she drawls and turns to leave the tavern.

Jaskier frowns at her, because what the hell is that supposed to mean? He sputters as he follows her, affronted enough to not be filled with a sense of dread and apprehension upon leaving the inn. “I beg your most likely unavailable pardon?!”

Yennefer scoffs and doesn’t bother to hold the door for him, so that it almost slams in his face. If he weren’t so frustrated, he would almost appreciate the dramatics of that. As it is, though, he doesn’t.

“When you don’t waste the air you’re breathing with unnecessary syllables, you stare.” Yennefer explains, her strides long and sure, as though she has a certain destination in mind and doesn’t just want to get away from Jaskier as soon as possible. “And when you stare, I just know you’re wasting a sizeable amount of sanity by _thinking_. You’re talking less than I remember, but you think more, it seems. You’re your own best audience, I would guess.”

He’s sure she aims for sniding, cutting comments. But so far, she’s right. He has indeed developed a habit of losing himself in thought spirals. And being one’s own best audience would actually make an excellent line in a song, so he keeps that in mind, thanks. Thus, no witty comebacks here, just an acknowledgement of her words. Anything else would lead to further discussion, and while he loves that usually, discussing with Yennefer is a frustrating and, frankly, terrifying affair. So, he passes.

“Bold of you to assume I have any ounce of sanity left in me,” Jaskier murmurs instead, more to himself than to her. But he is regarded with an entirely not so charming snort nonetheless. Interesting. That sounded as genuine as it would get with Yennefer.

He follows her into a dark alleyway, no traces of sunlight reaching the deepest parts of it. The perfect place to safely portal out of this town, he supposes. He just barely resists the urge to look behind himself and make sure they’re not being followed, but he knows this would make them suspicious.

Yennefer stops abruptly and turns around to fix him with a scowl that somehow manages to look like she’s exceptionally bored. Yeah, okay, he still envies her for being able to look like that.

“Have you portalled before?”

“No?” What kind of a question is that?

“Good,” she says with no indication of actually being pleased. “Don’t puke on my dress or I’ll have your guts.”

Jaskier sputters, but before he can say anything more to that, or ask if she must really raise even more questions with every word that leaves her mouth, the sorceress creates a portal, and Jaskier is frozen to the spot in the face of it. Wind that has no source – well, other than sheer chaos probably – hits his face and whips through his hair, blowing it out of his eyes. A tiny reminder of what Yennefer is capable of.

The portal looks awfully unstable and wobbly and it crackles, and well, now that he’s really thinking about it, he’s not sure he really wants to join her. Sucks for the princess, but there is no way he’s going to survive–

Before he can voice any of those very pressing concerns, though, Yennefer rolls her eyes at him and shoves him a little.

“Age before beauty,” Jaskier offers lamely, then squawks when she shoves him again. Distantly, he is reminded of the trail up the mountain across that godsforsaken shortcut the dwarves led them to. “Alright, alright,” he murmurs and steps forward.

One moment he is in an unassuming town he can’t even bother to remember the name of, the next he’s… well, somewhere else. And his stomach is decidedly against the whole thing. He has to breathe through it and swallow a few times, moving to lean against the dark wooden planks of the closest wall. His legs feel funny and, okay, closing his eyes is definitely a bad decision.

Through the haze of sudden sickness, Jaskier is vaguely aware that he is standing inside the legendary, infamous castle of witchers. Any reverence and awe he would usually feel is replaced with the urge to keep the contents of his stomach precisely in there. Nausea is the worst! He would take being kicked in the face by angry elves over feeling nauseous any day.

Quietly, a voice in the back of his mind reminds him that, wait, shouldn’t it be impossible to portal into these walls? Huh. Well. Then again, there’s probably nothing that Yennefer can’t do. You know, except being kind to him.

A second later, the portal snaps closed the very moment Yennefer steps through with a lot more grace than he did. Again, Jaskier is in grudging awe of her. But feeling sick to his stomach is definitely still the more prominent feeling here. Ugh.

“Huh, you didn’t empty your guts,” the sorceress says, one perfectly shaped eyebrow raised. “Colour me impressed.”

“M-hm,” he croaks, not yet trusting himself to open his mouth.

She looks at him with amusement. “Let’s not do this again.”

“M-hm!” he nods emphatically and the amused twinkle in her eyes deepens. The sadist.

After graciously giving him a moment to breathe through his disgraceful portal sickness, Yennefer tells him to follow her. He does, and all he sees are more wood panelling and stone floors as they cross various corridors and heavy doors on the way to another _somewhere_. It’s very disorienting how everything looks the same.

Finally, she leads him to a heavy double door that is the first of its kind so far, so maybe he can remember that. The other remarkable thing about this room is how warm it is, a healthy fire lit in the hearth. And well, warmth is always welcome in Jaskier’s book, so he will definitely remember all the ways to get to this room. He already feels his stomach begin to settle at the warmth.

As he lets his curious eyes wander, he realises that this giant room must be something of a common room, a living area maybe. Carpets line the walls, and furs are spread out neatly on the floor. A large, semi-open kitchen area is to his right. This huge, warm room must be where the witchers spend most of their time. _Brooding in company_ , he imagines.

His musings abruptly come to a halt as an old man with hard features appears from the kitchen area, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, drying his hands on a rag that has seen better days. Jaskier swallows. His hair is long and white, though it seems more from age than from his witchering business. A scar runs along his left eye, all the way from his eyebrow to his cheek. It gives him a harsh look, a hardness deeper than the steely expression he presents Jaskier with.

He has a vague idea of who this might be, following the tales he has heard.

“Ah, she found you,” the man says gruffly as he eyes Jaskier with what seems like a mix of suspicion and curiosity. “Though, I must admit, from what I’ve been told about you, I expected something more...” He trails off, and Jaskier feels an amused smile creep onto his lips.

“Flamboyant? Extravagant?” he offers with a tilt of his head. “Hmm, what else. Gaudy, maybe? Though that wouldn’t be my first choice.”

The man stares at him for a beat, then gives the tiniest of nods. “Yeah, something like that,” comes the gruff reply. “Nothing so plain.”

Jaskier winces in memory of his beloved doublets that could outshine everyone else in the room. In _every_ room. Even at court! Ugh. “I had to give up on colour right along with my name and reputation, you see.”

“Hm. Probably a wise decision.”

“Yeah, well,” Jaskier shrugs, still not sure whether he should be delighted or insulted that people keep underestimating him. Always have, always will. Granted, it’s probably more of a chance than anything else once his ego manages to get over it.

“Vesemir,” the man says suddenly and holds out his hand. Jaskier takes it with a smile.

“It’s a pleasure,” he says and finds that he means it despite the man’s gruff exterior. And probably interior. Huh. Still holding the man’s hand, he hesitates. Then decides to stick with, “Julian.”

For the briefest of moments, he sees Vesemir’s eyebrows lift in surprise before he schools his expression to casual indifference. A look even more impressive than Geralt’s. He’s aware of the name Jaskier used to go by, then. Has probably heard something about him from either Geralt or Yennefer.

The mere thought makes him bristle at what they would have told the other witchers about who was coming into their home. Probably called him useless and annoying, which, okay, fair point. But he has no intention of being _completely_ useless while living in someone else’s house – or castle, for that matter. His good manners forbid that, as do both his conscience and his compulsion to do something with his hands lest he goes mad.

So, he swallows and feels the need to defend himself a mere minute after meeting the man. Great. “Listen, Vesemir, I don’t know what exactly you heard about me,” he begins and the old man inclines his head a bit, his face unfortunately still unreadable. “And with Yennefer and Geralt doing the talking, I’m sure I don’t even want to know. But I just want to say that I’ll do everything in my power to help Cirilla. I’m here primarily for her, not for anyone else.” Vesemir looks like he wants to say something, but Jaskier cuts him off quickly. “However. If there is anything you need, anything I can do to, uh, help or something, I’ll do that, too. I’m not as useless as I may look – or be spoken about, indeed.”

He cuts himself off before more rambling can ensue. _True to form, Jaskier!_

Vesemir musters him again and the bard almost twitches in trepidation under the scrutiny. But he means it. Kaer Morhen looks like it would need every helping hand it could get. And, well, Jaskier has two.

Eventually, the man gruffs again, and it’s almost as impressive as Geralt’s grunts. “You look like a young man who has two healthy arms and legs still attached to his body. In my book, that’s all I care about. And if that mouth of yours can make the little cub smile, that’s a convenient bonus.”

And that’s the end of that, it would seem.

Jaskier smiles despite himself, glad to see that he is still fluent in Witcher-Speak and hears Vesemir’s declaration for what it really is: _Welcome to Kaer Morhen_.

* * *

Geralt is watching Ciri as she goes through the parkour he’s set up for her for the third time in the late afternoon hours. Even though her eyes are hidden behind a blindfold, he knows that her face is blank. Like always. Her eyes no longer puffy and red-rimmed from secret crying, but instead from exhaustion. Despite that, her movements are precise. Clean, swift, calculated. As brisk as the breeze blowing through his hair, announcing cold days ahead.

It should make him proud, that single-minded focus of hers. But it doesn’t. He knows that she doesn’t sleep, at least not much. In the beginning, her cries and nightmares kept all of them awake most nights, but after Lambert made a comment about that a few months ago, she apologised for being a bother.

That was the last time she had spoken to any of them. And it breaks Geralt’s heart to watch her every morning at breakfast, not really looking at any of them. Eating just the barest amount to keep her strength. Training for the routine. Staying alive out of spite. Because she might as well conquer everything life is throwing at her instead of giving up now.

It pains him deeply to see her like this, but he is at a complete loss. This life, it is not suited for a child, let alone a princess. He has always known that. All he can do, all he _knows_ to do, is to watch her. So that is what he does, while his throat closes up and his heart breaks for her a little more each passing day.

Since the very first day, a bone-deep guilt has been clouding his mind, and he can’t look at himself in the mirror. He can’t even look at Ciri without feeling wrong, helpless, guilty, a monster.

But he does look at her. Always. He has to keep her safe.

But now, months and months later, Geralt still feels like Ciri is slipping through his fingers, out of his control. Same as everything else. He would think he’d be used to it by now.

Turns out, he is not. And it hurts.

Watching her as she goes through the motions she has perfected over the past few weeks, blade perfectly in her hand like it belongs there, feet landing where she intends them to… Geralt finds he is petrified.

Because it is the words she doesn’t say that get replaced with perfectly aimed strikes. It is the tears she doesn’t show that get replaced with a balled first. It is the trauma, the confusion, the never-ending pain that gets turned into a weapon. 

Inevitably, it is the human that gets lost in whatever it is that keeps her up at night.

She is too much like all of them, Geralt notices miserably. And she is only eleven years old. A child. A little girl. _His_ little girl, as Destiny would have it.

But she deserves better than this, better than him, better than them. Better than anything they could possibly give her.

Ciri deserves Jaskier. Casting his eyes away from the girl’s practiced movements and into the sky, tinged in golden red clouds from the setting sun, Geralt hopes beyond hope that Yennefer manages to find Jaskier soon.

As if answering is silent prayers immediately, there is a new sensation, a bit out of place. The feeling of a heartbeat he hasn’t heard in what feels like an eternity.

Then the familiar sound of the heavy gate opening behind him rips him away from his thoughts. Geralt watches as Ciri masters the final stretch of the parkour with bravura, then he turns around and promptly finds himself petrified for a completely different reason.

Because there he is. Jaskier, trailing behind Vesemir silently, without any rambling or complaining or _opining_. Head up, face carefully blank, his eyes somewhere above his shoulder.

Geralt secretly prepared himself for this all day, but nothing could have ever prepared him for this. He’s not entirely sure what exactly he had expected, but it was certainly not the picture presented before him now.

He certainly hadn’t imagined Jaskier to look like _this_. The brightest, most hideously colourful clothes he used to favour apparently had to make way for dark, unassuming, washed out linen. If Jaskier in scarlet or in cornflower blue had been a sight to behold, nothing in the world could have prepared Geralt for the bard dressed in all black, the clothes hanging rather loosely from his shoulders, like they are too big for him. Geralt finds he is equally unprepared for the way Jaskier’s hair is slightly longer now than he used to wear it, slightly curly, falling into his eyes until he flicks his head a little so they can rest on his brow. There is a scruff on his cheeks, though it can’t be older than three days, and it is neatly trimmed – but still, it’s a far-cry from the clean shaven bard Geralt had known for all those years. 

Jaskier looks… he looks _good_. So good. He still has those laugh lines around his eyes and they make something inside Geralt’s stomach settle. Knowing that, despite everything, they hadn’t been replaced with a perpetual frown lets the witcher breathe easier – for some reason or other he doesn’t care to examine too closely. 

He is only vaguely aware that he is staring, but with the way his arms twitch at his sides, inexplicably wanting to reach out and pull the bard into a hug… staring really is the more bearable option. 

Especially since Jaskier is staring right back, at least for a full seven seconds before he tears his eyes away and leaves Geralt feeling… _something_. Something bad. Bereft, maybe. Yeah, that does sound like a Jaskier-word. Hm. 

Geralt swallows and forces himself to look away, to turn back around to where Ciri is still standing, blade loosely in her hand but the blindfold now resting around her neck. Looking at him, then at Vesemir and Jaskier, a slight frown between her brows. Geralt winces and hopes that this is going to end well for everyone. 

“Well done!” he calls, forcing a smile onto his lips. “We’ll work on your guard more tomorrow.” She nods and Geralt once more can’t read her expression. He sighs silently before calling her over and turning back around to Vesemir and Jaskier.

He can do this. He can keep it together around Jaskier, he can get a grip of his racing thoughts and heart, he can ignore the despair that has settled in his stomach the very moment he held Ciri in his arms for the first time. He can ignore the sense of impending doom, he can be there for her, train her, watch her, save her. 

He can do all of this with the scent of rose and amber and wood polish surrounding him, grounding and untethering him at the same time. Fuck, since when does Jaskier smell so good?

Since when does he look so good?

Since when–

Anyway. _Anyway!_ Geralt can do this. 

Jaskier looks up and meets his eyes again for the briefest of moments. 

Fuck. He can’t do this. 

* * *

Jaskier can’t do this. Well, he _can_ and he _will_ , but see, he doesn’t want to. He did not wake up this morning expecting to see Geralt again, and now here they are. 

And Geralt looks… tired. Exhausted, apprehensive. Constipated. If Jaskier were a lesser man, he would even go so far as to say Geralt looks a bit lost. Not just because he’s been staring at Jaskier a bit too long, though that is concerning as well. But it’s more than that. The way he holds himself, those broad shoulders all but slumped over, that perpetual frown a tad deeper than Jaskier saw it last, and the scruff on his cheeks a bit more prominent.

And that doesn’t even mention the deep, dark shadows under his eyes. Worse than the time Geralt was looking for a djinn and spat at Jaskier that he couldn’t fucking sleep. He looked tired then. Now he just looks lost. 

Jaskier wants to go to him, wrap his arms around him and ask what is on his mind. He wants to take him to the nearest bed, push him under the covers and not leave the room until he is sure the witcher is finally getting some sleep. That wouldn’t even be the first time, he thinks, pictures of a shared room from what feels like a lifetime ago swarming his mind. 

He grudgingly acknowledges that a part of him still wants to take care of the witcher. Still wants to make sure he is okay, has enough food, enough drink, enough coin. It’s not as large a part anymore as it used to be, thankfully, but it is one of the deepest, strongest, most innate parts of himself. And that is exactly the problem.

Jaskier sighs as the painfully familiar ache settles in his chest once more. He knew seeing Geralt again would do that to him, it was why he didn’t want to come. He doesn’t deserve that ache, but knows very well there’s no cure against it. Not even time and space have been enough. Or other lovers – and Melitele knows there have been enough of those.

“Greetings, Geralt,” he calls before his thoughts can continue their spiral out of control, and is acutely aware that it comes out much too cheerful to be genuine. Even someone like Geralt would no doubt pick up on it.

The witcher barely looks at him and grunts, the nuance of which Jaskier can’t seem to figure out.

“Well, guess we’re still not talking, then,” he mutters with an air of faux nonchalance, and resists the urge to bury his hand in the too-long sleeves of his black shirt. It’s a nervous habit he has cultivated over the course of the war, but he knows the witcher would recognise it for a sign of weakness, cowering, hiding. But Jaskier is not hiding. He’s over that.

Secretly, he is glad that Geralt barely regards him. That he doesn’t immediately recognise the meaning of the grunt, that he hasn’t memorised them as well as he thought he had. Maybe, _just maybe_ , this whole endeavour won’t end in heartbreak again. Maybe he really doesn’t care about Geralt as much anymore and only has to get used to being around him again for the pit in his stomach to settle. 

As he sets eyes on a young girl slowly approaching them, all thought of the witcher and his own feelings about the situation flee from his mind immediately. He identifies her as the fugitive princess of Cintra without a single trace of doubt, her unmistakable pale blonde hair still as bright as he remembers. She looks a lot like her mother, her hair tied back with a black leather band.

Jaskier whirls to her with a gentle smile, giving her every ounce of his undivided attention. “Ah, you must be young Miss Cirilla, then.”

“It’s Ciri,” Geralt grunts from behind him, and Jaskier doesn’t even try to hide the genuine irritation he feels.

“Oh, no, no, no!” He doesn’t turn around to Geralt, just stands up straighter and inclines his head a bit. Rolling his eyes for only the princess to see, he laments, “I will not be taken down the rabbit hole of brutish discourtesy quite so easily as everyone else.” He bends down slightly to make up for his height and mirthfully winks at her. “Us nobility, we have to stick together, do we not?” 

Cirilla gives him a mildly confused but entirely intrigued look. Jaskier grins, realising he has got her hooked. 

“Oh dear, where are my manners?” he gasps with a tad more exaggeration than he is used to, then takes a step back and bows before the girl. “Allow me to introduce myself, little Miss Cirilla. Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. Delighted and at your service.” 

The princess, now finally in her element, returns his flourished bow with a perfect curtsy herself. Jaskier smiles gently at her, and his heart swells tenfold in his chest when he sees her return it. There is a glint in her eye now that he could swear was not there before. 

Oh, he is going to treat her like the princess she is, he decides right on the spot. It is now his one mission in life to make her smile, to teach her to keep it, and to keep her safe. Nobody will hurt her as long as Jaskier is there to prevent it. And, _oh_ , is he here. He is so here! Geralt might regret all of his life choices, Yennefer might want to curse him, hex him, mute him. Vesemir might… well, Jaskier doesn’t know what Vesemir or the other witchers might do, except maybe join Geralt in his pity party. 

But Jaskier is here to stay. Until the princess doesn’t need him anymore. He has time.

He turns slightly to look at Geralt and Vesemir, but they seem to be frozen in the face of that scene. Especially Geralt. Jaskier would have expected him to roll his eyes at his dramatics, or even to chide him, to not call her a princess, to do or say _something_! But he doesn’t. He almost seems like a statue, only staring at Cirilla with something akin to wonder.

The princess, in turn, is still looking at Jaskier with an intrigued half-smile, like he’s a new puzzle for her to solve. Well, maybe she would like to share her findings on that with him someday in the future. The past few years brought along one identity crisis after another.

“Now, Miss Cirilla,” he adresses her with a dramatic expression of high expectation. “Please tell me you have more regard to music than these two philistines who probably don’t know a ballad from a sea shanty.” 

Another almost-smile and a nod, though not as jerking as he expected. Progress.

What’s more is that Jaskier can’t help but be delighted that he might have found a willing audience in the princess.

“Wonderful! Now, would you mind joining me inside so I can settle in and then tell you the story of how Geralt reacted with barely a grunt of acknowledgement to one of my most famous, and, dare I say, most brilliant ballads? No, wait, he actually did say more. He accused me of lying. Lying! Preposterous! Appalling, I tell you, my dear! Oh, or how about the story of my accidental lute-acquisition? Which, funnily enough, is directly linked to the other story. Would you like to hear about that? Heroics and adventure! Even friendship and love. I have the best of stories, believe you me, little Swallow.” 

He pauses to look down at the girl walking next to him for any sort of reaction, ready to apologise for imposing on her time and peace of mind like that. But the tiny real smile sitting on her lips stops him. Her eyes are cast downward, her smile secret. Like she is trying it on for the first time in a while. There is still that unmistakable tension in her shoulders, but hidden behind the strands of long hair that have come loose from her ponytail, he can definitely see a smile. 

Jaskier’s heart grows ten times its size and in that moment beats only for her. He decides on the spot that nothing in his life has ever mattered more than making this little girl smile. Making her happy and making her see the good things in life is now his first and only mission.

And if showing her the light means blinding the others, then so be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **As a treat:** picture this Jaskier (except with dark clothes)  
> 
> 
>  **Another treat:** A result of me endlessly annoying my friends with this story, have an alternative summary for this fic:  
>  _Here's me, just channelling my deepest conviction that life means love and that storytelling is one of the bases of humaity, and has always and will always get people through tough times. And these babies are in a war. They need stories and love to keep going. Enter Jaskier._
> 
> **In the spirit of this story and just life in general, I hope you know that you are incredibly loved, that you are wonderful and deserve good things!**
> 
> If you liked this chapter, please consider letting me know <3 I do hope I managed to get the voices across properly. It is a struggle :p

**Author's Note:**

> While waiting for the next chapter, feel free to come say hi over on tumblr [@natskier.](https://natskier.tumblr.com/)


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